I’ve been wondering about that myself . . .

(Jane’s World is the brainchild of the awesomely talented Paige Braddock)

I can daydream all day, chewing on pencils, playing endless games of Winter Whirl,* while my characters dance through my head, conceptualizing their feelings and events and shootings and smooches.

But that doesn’t get stuff written down.  Eventually, if I want to have a novel written, I will have to make new marks on paper or throw new pixels up on a screen.**

That’s a pretty basic concept right there, and it’s amazing how many excuses I can counter-conceptualize for not actually doing this.

The only cure is to get something down—even a single sentence about what I want to happen next.  And then another sentence, expanding on the idea a little . . . and another so it’s a full paragraph (according to Janie’s teacher, three sentences make a paragraph, and who am I to argue?) . . . and a fourth that makes the adverbs in the second moot . . . and then the clock strikes eleven and there are four pages here that didn’t exist before that one small sentence was written.

I’m not knocking daydreaming—it’s not a waste of time, until it is, and without conceptualizing, you get alphabet soup in three-sentence groups.  But there comes a time when the only way to call yourself a writer . . . is to write something.

Ideas are only as valuable as their execution.

Suck it up and get it down.

Butt in seat.  Hands on keyboard.

Poing!

_____

*You shoot colored snowflake balls at a great whirling structure of colored snowflake balls, trying to match at least three so they’ll fall off.  It’s like structured transcendental meditation with poingy sounds.

** Supplying, one can safely assume, my own poingy sounds.

Jane’s World is the brainchild of the awesomely talented  Paige Braddock

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